Pet
by Shipperwolf
Summary: She remembers a blur. She remembers being torn from them. In the midst of darkness and torment, Carol Peletier fights to survive for the sake of survival. She refuses to die in fear. An S3 Caryl darkfic. Please read warnings before reading! In progress.
1. Prologue

**_Okay guys WARNINGS UPFRONT: This fic is dark. Be prepped for hints-maybe strong ones-of torture and rape. Cursing. Angst. Melodrama. Possibly disturbing death of the main or secondary characters of this fic._**

**_Seriously, I don't know where this is coming from, but my muse is dark and I needed to get it out. It may be a short multi-chap, maybe a full-on story. Don't know yet. Gonna brainstorm with Alamo Girl, because she's my Caryl/TWD wingman and I depend on her opinion and genius to a terrifying and awesome extent. ^.^_**

**_Please, if you feel you may be offended by these themes, do NOT read. Do not read with intent to flame. Just avoid it altogether._**

**_If you DO read, please voice your thoughts honestly but reasonably. I'm not normally one to take such dark avenues. _**

**_All my love in advance, and standard disclaimer applies as usual!_**

* * *

She barely remembered the raid on the prison. She recalled the sound of thunder. The rumble of the earth beneath her feet. She remembered the tank fire breaking through the fences, the walls…the trucks surrounding the entirety of the facility and the shouts and screams of both their allies and her own.

Gunfire.

A newborn's wails.

Daryl's desperate snarl in her ear:

"_Don't fight. __Run__."_

How long had it been? One week? Two? She could hardly keep up with the time with no window to judge the sun by. She'd counted instead the meals—if they could be called such, and by the silent, sad elderly woman that came to wipe her bare body down with a cold, barely-clean cloth…

And by his visits. She assumed they were nightly.

But she couldn't be sure.

All that Carol _could _be sure of was that she'd been captured, torn from her family, and bound to the bed of a man she'd hoped to never lay eyes on again.

Her chest ached and her wrists burned as she strained weakly against the rusty chains. The door was creaking open yet again; she smelled the nauseating scents of blood and sweat and _sulfur_.

The cold metal of his "new and improved" hand skimmed its favorite trail between her breasts and she found his eyes in the dim lamplight.

Merle Dixon's filthy teeth flashed down at her as his remaining hand fumbled with the button of his jeans.

She did not cry and she did not look away.

She had given up living in fear.

She certainly would not _die_ in it.


	2. Chapter 1

**Thrilled by the positive response to the prologue, to a rediculous extent! Thanks so much guys!**

**Here's another short installment, a closer look at Carol's surroundings and circumstances.**

**I also plan to switch POVs sometime soon. All my love, hope you continue to enjoy!**

* * *

_Spring was setting in by then, but God, she was so cold._

_She was always cold._

He never let her wear anything. While she could pivot her head enough to look around the dim room, she could never pinpoint where he'd put her clothes.

Maybe he threw them away.

_Likely he threw them away._

The woman came in again—Carol assumed it had been about two or three hours since Merle had left her—with what appeared to be a fresh cloth. The first since she'd woken up on his bed however long ago….

She never spoke, the old woman. Grim faced and tight-lipped, she simply dipped the cloth in her little bowl of cold water and wiped Carol down, from hairline to little toe, and every mound, dip and crevice in between. She was at least grateful to be somewhat cleaned daily.

She was mostly grateful to have _him_ wiped out of her.

She said "thank you" once, the first time the stringy-haired servant came in to clean her. When she received no response Carol knew the woman had been forbidden from speaking to her.

And so for the sake of another tormented soul, she never sought to say anything to the sad elder again.

And then she was alone again.

_Again._

_Again._

She was almost always alone.

Cold settled into her bones after the woman left. Goosebumps rose on her arms, her legs, even her stomach. The chains on her arms were loose enough for her to move them slightly, and she shifted for the millionth time on that old, creaky, _filth_-soaked mattress.

Sometimes Merle adjusted the chains to hold her hands above her head. She thanked God that he never left them that way. In Merle's own words, _"Wouldn't want those arms goin' dead on us. Those nails were made for scratchin'."_

The shack he lived in was small and cramped. From what she could see when he opened the door to the room, it was simply comprised of said room, a den and a bathroom.

The bathroom was the only other one she'd actually gotten a decent glimpse of, when her bladder or gut would be too much to bear and she would literally _demand_ that he unchain her and take her to it.

At first her perfectly normal 'requests' were met with amused compliance. But the longer she remained his prisoner the more frustrated she became with her very existence as such, and rather than breaking down (and God he would love that, he would love it so much) she became more and more defiant, glaring when he'd smile at her and refusing to beg him for anything.

Now, when she would squirm beneath his bulk and grumble past his snapping jaws, "Bathroom", he would frown and huff and sometimes _punish_.

Even now she could feel the slice on her bottom lip sting, the latest bite that proved his impatience with her bladder.

Tentatively she swiped the thin wound with her tongue.

"Shit."

It was strange to her how such a small injury could bother her so much more in this moment than anything else.

More than the bruise on her cheek.

More than the pulled muscles in her legs.

More than the base of her spine, which had remained mostly in the same place due to her inability to _roll over_ in over a week.

It hurt more than her heart.

And as she lay in the silence of Merle Dixon's horrible little torture-shanty, Carol steeled the twinge of fear that fluttered through it, breathing deep and lifting her butt off the bed to ease the pressure on her back.

Her heart ached. It burned. But despite everything Merle had put her through so far, she could not let it fail.

She could only hope that after time enough passed, the man the elder Dixon worked for would have her released from Merle's custody. She had made it a point to call herself a nurse, someone who could help his citizens. She'd hoped it would be enough to keep her semi-free. Free enough to keep an eye on Beth. Free enough to keep a lookout for anyone else who may have been captured later.

But she had not seen the man Merle called "The Gov" since he'd dragged her into this place and chained her down.

She had only seen Merle himself and the woman they allowed to feed and clean her. He had warned her of the lookouts outside, however.

Whether they were really there or not, she could not know.

A few times she had thought she heard voices. Distant, mostly male. Surely they couldn't be imagined, or dreamed.

Surely she'd heard them.

They were in a town, after all. A normal-looking town in the middle of a world gone to Hell.

Right?

"Right. You're in a town. There are people here. Outside. Somewhere. You're right. You're right." She assured herself aloud sometimes, just to hear a voice, _any_ voice, aside from _his_.

There were people around her, through the walls, outside the darkness.

Beth was out there. The girl's cries lingered in her memory, the image of her being pulled out of Carol's arms and dragged away, out of her sight, trapped in her nightmares.

Of the others she was less sure.

The last she had seen of them was amidst the chaos of the attack…

The last she'd seen of Daryl was his face, so close to hers, rumbling into her ear to run.

And she had.

And they'd caught her.

She wondered if they had survived. If Daryl had survived.

"Of course he did. Of _course_ he did."

Daryl was still out there.

Still alive.

She was right.

She was right.

"You're right, Carol._ You're right."_


	3. Chapter 2

**_Here we go, guys! A look at Carol's spiral into hopelessness._**

**_I'm trying not to get too graphic with things, you'll notice. Rating remains high due to strong suggestions and the possiblity of me deciding to get more detailed._**

**_I write at random, so you never know ;)_**

**_Also, I apologize for the short chapters. It's just my thing, I guess. More soon!_**

* * *

She was dreaming.

She knew she had to be.

Someone whispered in her ear, but she couldn't make out the words. She couldn't tell who it was; the mumble sounded distant, muffled.

Was she under water?

Something cold hit her skin.

"Stop."

Had she spoken?

The whisper again, louder…clearer.

Her arms ached. She couldn't move them. Why? Why did her head pound so harshly, why did her skin feel slick and grimy, why did…

Why did she hurt…._there_?

Carol licked her lips. Salt. Metal. Her eyes, they wouldn't open. The cold sensation continued to trail down her body, rough edges wiping away the grime of her stomach.

She couldn't remember…

A voice in her spoke, an old memory of desperation and hope:

"_I think she's still out there."_

"_We'll find her….we will. I see it."_

Daryl. The farm. Sophia. How long had it been since her little girl had died?

How long had it been since she'd seen Daryl's face, since she'd watched those sharp eyes flit across her before awkwardly darting down?

Where was he…where was _she_?

The cold hurt now. She burned…she burned somewhere she shouldn't be…

It couldn't have been Ed. It couldn't have been Ed.

_He's dead. Isn't he? Had that even happened?_

"Stop." Her voice again. Thick, rasping. No response.

Aside from the murmur in her ear, the lightening, clarifying whisper that seemed to grow closer and closer. Was she awake? Was she asleep?

If it was a dream, it had to be a nightmare.

_Open your eyes._

_Open them._

The pain seared just once, and she opened her mouth.

Not her eyes.

"STOP!"

And then the whisper. She heard it. She heard her.

"_He'll find you. He'll find you. He'll find you…."_

Sophia?

"_Open your eyes. Don't cry. He'll find you. He'll find you. He'll find you."_

Eyes snapped open, vision blurred, cleared. Sharpened.

The woman had just finished wiping her groin clean and was eyeing her warily, the usual cold sadness giving way to a glint of genuine concern. She didn't speak, however. She would never speak.

Carol licked her lips again.

She needed water. She needed to ask for water.

"Sorry…." She managed instead, and couldn't for the life of her recall what it was she was apologizing for.

The old woman only nodded, once, and disappeared from the room.

She was alone, briefly. From the achy craning of her head she could see that the woman had left the door to the shack open. The sunlight beamed in and Carol smiled, just slightly. She hardly saw the sun anymore.

It was beautiful, energizing…

It was hope.

And then it was gone.

The woman returned, closing the door behind her. A cracked glass of gritty well water was in her hand. Carol breathed deep, prepared to drink as quickly as possible. The woman never lingered long.

Carol couldn't blame her.

She nearly choked the water down, the feeling of the cool liquid offering just a small consolation to the horror of her day.

To the horror of every day.

When her head was let back down against the sweat-soaked pillow, Carol sighed.

Footsteps signaled the woman's departure.

The small house was cast back into darkness.

It had been several more days, she knew. Maybe longer. Maybe another week. She simply could not tell anymore.

She anticipated the return of her caretaker every day. The elder's quick cleanings brought some relief to the filth and aches of her body. She dreaded her other visitor.

Merle's visits were not so quick.

It was worse when he passed out on her afterwards.

She had an infection at this point, she knew. The apex of her thighs burned when he entered her. Stung when she peed. Ached the rest of the time. She mentioned it to the woman, once. Yesterday.

Yesterday?

She wasn't sure if it was yesterday or last night. Or the night before.

Time was blurring the longer she stayed.

She supposed it was worth a try, in hopes that the caretaker would give the message to someone outside. Anyone…

_Anyone who cared._

But no one cared.

No one cared.

Or if they did, they were too afraid to act. It didn't matter anymore. She was wasting away in his bed, getting sick and losing hope. Merle would not let her go. His boss, "The Governor" would not let her go.

She was his to play with until she died. His rotting little toy.

And then he was there, ready to dirty her up once again.

Morbidly she felt her lips quirk.

'_And I just got clean.'_

"It's important you actually _try_ to be worth fuckin' tonight, darlin'. I'm gonna be gone for a few days; got some ammo to scrounge up. Looks like we're runnin' low thanks to your people giving us shit at the prison…" His voice was coming from the other side of the wall, from the den, gruff and full of mischief.

She heard him open the door, smelled the familiar stench of rotting eggs.

It was his breath, she learned. It was horrible, rancid, and she knew it would soon consume her.

Merle leaned over the side of the bed, puffed that sour heat into her face, and smiled.

"Send ole' Merle off to war happy, now."


End file.
